Skinny Love
by elivalen
Summary: FrUK/USUK. Second part to The Man Who Can't Be Moved. Arthur always believed there was something to the relationship he and Francis had, but that was a tiny hope among the pain he felt. Warnings inside.


_A/N: and it's time to stop the fluffiness with BBBF for a while because i'm here with an angsty number, and guess what? Sequel to The Man Who Cant Be Moved, and it's Arthur's part this time, no less~ After this I may put another up where they may or may not get together, who knows? But anyway, the song this time was Skinny Love by Bon Iver, although I wrote it to Ed Sheeran's version. Sorry for feels in advance~ UvU_

_Warnings: self harm and an abusive relationship, non-con and possible OCCness for Artie's bf, whom I wont say yet. Much love ! 3_

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><p>He wasn't sure of what he saw in this relationship these days. There was not much to it, but he kept believing there was still ultimately something. He held onto that thought like it was his last lifeline. Sometimes, there would be reason to believe it. Other times, not so much. Arthur often found himself wishing his existence away. He hated delving into the reasons why. His relationship with this man was tilting on the edge of disaster. Perchance it already was a disaster, although neither wanted to admit it or know it.<p>

And yet, Arthur wanted to believe there was always something that continued to push the pathetic excuse of a relationship forward, but the feelings that came in turn would always come back to hurt him. Physical. Emotional. Either way, it all felt distinctly uncomfortable in certain ways that he couldn't put into words.

Still, there was undeniably _something_, otherwise he would not be here.

As such, he didn't walk out. He never gave much mind to the consequences of trying. Undoubtedly, his actions would always turn him back around to go headfirst straight back into the matter at hand. Everyday, at some point or another, he felt as if he was just there. Some days he was used, and he felt it through the tears and the love bites. Other days he was lied to, and even the tables would turn and he would have to lie just to get out of the trouble that he had seemed to cause. In any case, it still hurt him. His partner, a Frenchman of no more than twenty-six years, would claim he cared. Arthur wasn't sure about whether to trust his words. Frequently, days came about where Arthur felt like he couldn't believe him one bit.

Such a day was this very moment, where Francis just used him for his own pleasure. His touches were rough and careless, not bothered at how they left marks upon Arthur's already bruised skin. His lips bit and licked the red skin; lips that spoke lewd and unchaste things in his native language, saving no room for the sweet nothings and breathless utterings of reassurance to his lover that should have been whispered.

The noises in the room resonated largely from Francis, Arthur had noticed, between his name being panted out and his own ragged breathing, pained and short, which his partner mistook for sounds of pleasure. A whimper fell past his lips as he was mercilessly manhandled. A sharp slap around his thighs had him unwillingly crying out his partner's name, spurred on by the agony rather than the lust. His muscles ached. His skin burned. Soon, it was over, and Francis moved away from him to fall onto the satin sheets. Arthur let out an anguished breath and walked as steadily as he could to the bathroom, where he locked the door and stepped under the shower without thought or hesitation.

The blistering heat of the water stung as it ran over his raw skin, dripping into the cuts and bruises. Shakily, he reached for a sponge, with which he harshly and viciously scrubbed at his sore skin with. He felt disgusting. Used. He didn't like it. He wanted to wash away all the guilt, all the pain and all the anger he was pent up with.

But there was _something_, he always reminded himself.

He moved to replace the sponge back on the shelf, but froze when he saw tiny flecks of blood on the foam. Then he stared down at his blemished arms, pitifully blistered and marked. Shaking the thoughts away, he pushed his arm past the shower curtain to fumble about the nearby sink for the razor that rested between the taps. On retrieving it, he easily removed the blade and rested it against the unsightly skin of his forearm.

Whether or not there was that _something_, it always hurt in the end.

A droplet of salty water fell down his cheek. A droplet of dark blood fell down his arm. The scars would not matter. They never bothered him. He slid to the floor of the shower, burning under the hot water, chest constricting painfully as he cried.

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><p>"Arthur?"<p>

The man in question looked up from his book to see Francis pacing across the living room towards him. His stomach unintentionally sank and he watched as his partner kneeled on the floor in front of him, somewhat at eye level and looking rather intimidating. He swallowed thickly.

"Yes, love?" he forced out.

"Where were you this morning?"

Arthur thought back to that morning, when he'd woken up and scowled at the dried blood on the sheets from the cuts he'd gave himself the night before in the shower. He'd went out early to go to a job interview, while Francis was allowed a day off from his busy work which promised a stressed empowerment over Arthur during the upcoming evening hours. The interview did not go successfully. Arthur was still unemployed. He was hoping tirelessly that the book he was still drafting was going to strike lucky and earn him extra money. He had returned home later than expected from unorderly London traffic. The fact that Francis had became more suspicious had completely slipped his mind.

Suddenly, the sinking feeling he had felt seemed to intensify.

"You know I was at a job interview, Francis." he spoke earnestly, not looking him in the eye.

Francis cocked one eyebrow. "Do you feel that I doubt you, _chérie_?"

The bite in his tone was evident. Arthur stupidly did not respond, and bit his lip to sully the cry of discomfort rising in his throat as a hand wrapped around his hair, close to the roots, and pulled. Francis was on his feet, and forced Arthur up with him. He roughly ripped his head back and whispered in his ear.

"You did not answer me." he growled.

Arthur hissed in pain before Francis finally let go and dropped his arm to his side. The two regarded each other for a moment, before the anger and self-pity Arthur felt for two years finally came out, in the form of but a few words.

"I'm moving back to America. Away from you."

The shock came before the sensation. The tingling burn in his cheek had Arthur cupping a hand over the reddening skin. For a second, his jaw fell slack in surprise, but then he glared at Francis, refusing to back down or look weak. He looked from Francis' outstretched hand to his glinting blue eyes.

"Do not make me strike you again, _mon amour_. I would hate the ruin that pretty face of yours."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Arthur snapped.

Yet he regretted ever opening his mouth in the first place. A firm hand closed around his wrist harshly pulled, dragging Arthur closer to the Frenchman so they were flush against each other. The scent of his cologne fogged up his senses and the sound of his content breathing served only to frustrate Arthur. All the belief that there was _something_ seemed to vanish just like that. Anything they had was gone, shattered. Arthur would laugh bitterly when he would be the first to move on and escape the pain. Any bindings that kept them together were cut. Their excuse for a relationship would disappear so quickly that it would humour either of them.

Arthur was done.

"Let me go." he said, tone level and leaving no room for argument.

Though Francis would let him have no such thing so simply. "What if I don't? Would you kick and scream like you always do?"

"Why do you treat this as you would a game?" Arthur demanded. "Do I mean nothing to you?"

"You mean what I tell you to mean, whenever I like. Whether what we have is love or not, as you say, you are _mine_."

"I do not belong to anyone. If anything, the only thing I dislike about you is that you make me forget what a real relationship is supposed to feel like."

"Complain some more, _cher_." Francis scoffed, pulling at the sleeves of Arthur's shirt. "Your scars do not bother me. Would you think someone would love you if you have such things as _these_?"

Arthur snatched his arms out of Francis' grip as he exposed the skin of his arms, scarred and littered with dry blood and bruises. He hastily pulled his sleeves down and marched stiffly into the hall, where Francis followed him as he angrily pulled on his shoes. He tried to block out everything that was said to him, and instead shrugged his coat on and hurriedly picked up his notepad and his wallet. Before he reached the door, Francis pulled violently on the back of his coat, almost causing Arthur to stumble. He threw a glare over his shoulder.

"Where do you plan to go, Arthur? You have no money enough for travel to America, let alone to the next city. You have nothing."

"I plan to go wherever I can that's as far as I deem acceptable away from you." he said simply.

And he opened the door and left, rubbing his stinging cheek as he slammed the door closed.

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><p><em>Dear diary,<em>

_So far I've still had no such luck with getting myself a job. A proper one, rather. I've found pitiful work in retail. The co-workers are pretentious and a collection of dim-witted fellows, but the pay is decent enough to get myself a room somewhere. My book is still in progress. Hopefully one of these days some publisher will deem it lucky enough to make it to the shelves._

_I've gotten in contact with my brother. The bond is still rocky, not at all as friendly as it should be, but he's agreed to drive me to a ferry someplace about Swansea. The bloke's been kind enough to pay for my route to the States, bless his soul. I've no idea how to repay him. It's quite a shame we don't get along._

_Still, I'm guaranteed a ferry back to America, where I've a better chance of publishing my book and finding a good job, perhaps a good home too. It's been a month or so since I walked out on Francis, and he appears to have caught on to the hint after three days worth of unanswered messages ordering me to come back that I won't be doing such a thing. I've forgotten what it was like to have a normal relationship, so it seems._

_Nevertheless, I've my head up that soon enough I'll be back in America where I'd attended college and lived happily for but a few years. _

_And I found myself remembering just yesterday, a tiny part of what love should feel like. I distinctly remember Alfred, charming and stupidly naïve. Perchance he remembers me. Some part of me hopes to meet him again. Looking back on what we had is quite endearing, almost sad. Falling for Francis as I still had my arms around that American idiot was the worst mistake of my life. If only I had realised it then. Drifting away from Alfred now struck me as the most painful thing I could ever have experienced._

_As much as I want to see him again, I don't want him to see me. Lord knows what he'd think upon seeing my hideous scars and bruises. I wouldn't like to pay it any mind. Perchance we'd rekindle something, somehow, although that's wishful thinking. _

_For the time being, I've saw some inkling of sense and at least attempted to put an end to my self harming, although some ridiculous concept comes to mind and persuades me to pick up the blade once again. Still, I'd dropped any other bad habit and was well on track to resorting back to my life, how it should have been._

_One less thing to worry about, I say._


End file.
